


Vigils

by paperfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Bottom Lucifer, Guilt, M/M, The Devil feels remorse, Very rough sex, falling in love with the Devil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperfeathers/pseuds/paperfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Apocalypse may be over, but Lucifer still has a lot to answer for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigils

 

 

Warnings: VERY rough sex, body horror involving Lucifer’s deteriorating vessel, angst by the Impalaload

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It’s cold. The kind of cold that weighs you down and seeps into your bones. The landscape shriveled, dormant and dreaming of sunlight. Leafless trees reach for the empty white sky like skeletal hands. Lucifer doesn’t feel it, of course. Rather, he sees it. In the way Sam’s breath rises white and labored, hands stuffed in his pockets. In the way he seems so much more distant, shoulders terse and eyes clouded with memory. He doesn’t say a word to Lucifer all day, movements brusque. When he asks Castiel what’s wrong, the seraph replies “It’s November the second.”

It’s explanation enough.

The day’s a quiet one, thick with a deep, uneasy silence that even Dean’s music cannot break. Dean very determinedly takes care to not interact with him, using Castiel as a mouthpiece-slash- messenger boy of sorts. Just as well, since Lucifer doesn’t much care for his brother’s vessel. Sam’s another matter, however. Pushing down the slight sting he makes himself scarce and takes to the skies, keeping an eye on Sam the entire time.

The sky has always been a refuge for him. After how many millennia trapped in endless heat and dark, having the sun and wind beat down on his wings is nothing short of bliss. However, the bright cold of the atmosphere also brings with it a reckoning of sorts, as Lucifer’s left pondering Sam’s anger. Specifically, Sam’s anger, directed at him.

Being with Sam has forced him to reassess many of his actions.  He doesn’t regret many things, cannot allow himself to. For the most part he still beholds humanity with contempt, still holds them responsible for his long imprisonment. Nevertheless he’s learned to give them a grudging respect for their ability to throw a spanner in fate’s works through sheer obstinate tenacity. And love.

It’s this love that he couldn’t understand, the sheer magnitude of it that was able to warp destiny, that made his little brother willingly give up his life for them. That kept Dean holding on to Sam, when Michael couldn’t for Lucifer. He couldn’t comprehend it. So one night, when Gabriel’s death had him broken open and raw, he’d invaded Sam’s dream,  wanting to punish, wanting to hurt, wanting to know the reason _why._ What he hadn’t counted on was Sam’s innate rage overwhelming him.

It was ugly, brutal, even painful. A fight for dominance neither could win more than any expression of tenderness. By the end of it their limbs were tangled together in every unimaginable way. His hands in Sam’s hair, Sam’s face buried between his neck and shoulder. Feeling Sam breathe beside him, all Lucifer knew was he didn’t want to be alone again.

The Apocalypse is far from over. Even with Lucifer actively taking himself off the chessboard and keeping the demons in check, there was still the heavenly host to contend with. Not to mention his own deteriorating vessel. The Winchesters for the most part still treat him with distrust, on Dean’s part outright hostility. He and Sam ruin each other more often than not. The human tearing at Lucifer’s brittle shell, he toying with Sam’s need for control. They rip and tear and remake each other in new ways every night. But sometimes, he sees something soft and broken in Sam’s expression, especially when he comes. Those are the nights he presses close, his chest to Sam’s back, counting each rib and each breath. The nights Sam doesn’t turn away end with him tracing the radiation burns marking Lucifer’s borrowed skin. Each touch magnified by Lucifer’s grace and so much more intimate than anything they’ve done beforehand that he has to close his eyes. But he never misses the awestruck vulnerability in Sam’s gaze.

This night will not be one of those nights. Sam’s jerky and tense and resolutely silent. Lucifer knows his vessel as well as he knows himself, so he knows it is a night when he is not welcome. A pang of hurt goes through him, and for a moment he feels disgust. But it’s _Sam,_ and Sam has always broken every one of his exceptions, every one of his boundaries. It’s only a matter of time before Sam breaks him.

He contents himself with watching, at least for a while. The three are working on a case in Ohio, the effects of a summoning ritual done by several irresponsible teenagers on Halloween. It’s a simple enough salt-and-burn, nothing the brothers can’t handle by themselves. Still, he has to restrain the urge to unmake the spirit when it sends Sam crashing through the rotting walls of an abandoned barn. A few seconds later, the spirit’s howling as it goes up in flames.

Sam’s limping by the time he gets to the Impala. Lucifer can see Dean giving him a look of slight concern. The drive back to the motel is silent and uneventful, though every now and then Lucifer catches Dean stealing glances at Sam. 

In the motel parking lot, Dean opens the Impala’s trunk and tosses Sam a package. He hangs ever so slightly back and asks Sam a question, his feigned nonchalance not quite masking his worry. In response Sam shakes his head roughly, attempts a smile. Dean hesitates, but after a few seconds heads back to the room he shares with Castiel. Sam is left alone. He tears open the package. Inside are three identical white candles.  

 He’s freezing, that much is certain. Fresh down from the adrenaline high of chasing after that spirit, exhausted. He gets on his knees, wincing and clutching at his shoulder. Lucifer can see blood from several cuts on Sam’s face, and he feels rage swell up inside of him. That spirit had better not be in hell, or Lucifer would personally see to it that it would be subject to the worst agonies for all of eternity.

There’s a lighter in his hand. Worn and battered, which he uses to light the first candle. The flame burns brave and steady, and he lets wax drip from the tip onto the asphalt, securing the candle’s base. He does the same to the other two. As the three candles burn brightly in a row, Lucifer hears him sigh. He looks tired, weariness deep in his bones and soul and so much older than his twenty-seven years.  A man scarred and battle-worn, forcing himself out of bed every morning to save who he could. To somehow make up for those he had failed.

 

 

“I know I don’t have any right to speak to you like this.” Sam’s voice is hoarse with grief and fatigue. He’s silent for a moment, head bowed.“After everything I’ve done. This - all of this – happened because of me.”

“I’m not here to excuse myself, or ask for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. ” A shaky breath.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry all this had to happen to you because of me. Especially you, Jess. Christ, I should’ve never gotten you mixed up in my life. If I hadn’t taken Brady’s bait, then maybe–”  His voice breaks to pieces on the words. And it’s as if he’s breaking, too. Falling apart in a freezing motel parking lot, face buried in the palm of his hand, shoulders shaking. Standing vigil over three candles guttering in the night wind.

Sam stays until all the candles have melted into pools of white wax. By then Lucifer has taken to the skies. It’s only when he’s beneath the stars, wings beating to the night wind’s tides, that he acknowledges the burning feeling in his chest as guilt.

 

Another dawn, another day on the road. Sam spends most of the next day asleep in the Impala’s backseat. Castiel’s taken care of his wrenched muscles and sprain, leaving only the exhaustion of a sleepless night for Sam to remedy by himself. From his vantage point up high, Lucifer watches over the quiet peace on his sleeping face. He’s out all day, until Dean shakes him awake as they reach the next motel.

Lucifer’s waiting for him when he enters his room.

Sam doesn’t say a word, though Lucifer sees shock-fear-anger flash through his face the moment he sees him standing by the window. He thinks he also catches a glimpse of something soft and unnamable, just for a second. But Lucifer pushes the thought from his mind as quickly as Sam wipes it from his face.

Lucifer doesn’t move , only turns his head. “Sam,” his voice is quiet, almost gentle. Sam stiffens, then almost mechanically closes the door behind him. He stalks to the side of his bed, tossing his overnight bag beside it and sits, making a great show of rifling through his things. Lucifer can see the tense line of his shoulders, his jaw working. It’s Sam who speaks first, the almost-harsh cadence of his voice no better than the strained silence. 

 “So. Didn’t see you all day yesterday.”

“… You didn’t seem to want me around.”

Sam snorts, shakes his head. He doesn’t pause in his unpacking, movements slightly more vehement, more agitated.  

“Any day you’re not around is a good day in my book. But Dean’s gotten it into his head that if I piss you off badly enough you might just restart the Apocalypse.”

“You know I’d never trick you like that.” Lucifer says carefully. “And I stopped it for my own benefit as much as I did it for you.”

At that, Sam laughs, harsh and angry.

“Funny, isn’t it? All that trouble. Getting Azazel to do your dirty work. Having him create the special children. Killing my Mom. Killing Jess. Having both Dad and Dean dragged to hell.  Slaughtering that town so you can summon Death, and God knows who else. Now, here we are.” He shoves his pack to the floor. Starts stripping down to his undershirt. 

“Sam…”

Sam freezes when he feels the bed shift under Lucifer’s weight, fists trembling on his thighs. Lucifer can see cords sticking out from his neck, his muscles a tapestry of tension and coiled power.  Sam is _dazzling_ in his anger, and after so long in the dark Lucifer can’t help but be drawn to him, a moth to a flame.

At the first touch of icy fingers Sam flinches. Lucifer brushes his knuckles down the column of his neck, across his shoulders, tracing the nubs of his spine. In spite of himself Sam relaxes. Travel stiffness and old battle trauma melting away under Lucifer’s touch.

Lucifer’s hand pauses at the juncture between his neck and shoulder and Sam releases a long, shuddering sigh. He reaches up. Sam’s skin is scorching where he latches onto Lucifer’s wrist, and by rights it shouldn’t be this easy for a human to touch him like this. For a mere boy to drag him into his lap and slide his hands under his shirt, crushing their lips together with lust and barely-contained fury. The audacity of it makes Lucifer growl, makes him want to take Sam right then and there. But it’s not his move. Not today. So where he normally draws blood, he caresses. Where he normally holds Sam down, he lets him take control. Sam responds to this newfound gentleness with confusion, pulling back from the kiss and resting his palms on Lucifer’s thighs.

“What’s with you today?” He’s frowning, puzzled wariness warring with flushed desire on his face. Beneath Lucifer he’s already half-hard. Like this, it won’t take Lucifer much to send him over the edge. He can grind them both into the oblivion of lust, if he wants. Tear each other to shreds like they always do. Suddenly Lucifer feels so tired. All his aeons of existence he’s been at war. With his father, with Michael, with his own festering bitterness in the Pit. The ceasefire between his army and the heavenly host is tenuous at best, and every time a brother is impaled on his own blade, ashen wings sprawled on the ground he can feel himself fracturing. So much light splintering until there’s nothing left. He’s been fighting so long he can no longer remember what peace is like, the golden days before humanity, before his Fall, blurring into an indistinct haze of longing.

Lucifer can see that same weariness scoring his vessel’s face. Guilt flares deep inside him again. _He deserves better._ The thought surprises him, and it’s painful, like all unwilling truths are. Sam deserves so much better than constantly picking the shards of himself off the ground, gluing them together and hiding the cracks from Dean and from himself. He deserves better than running, and fighting, and saving a world constantly teetering down the knife’s edge of destruction.

Lucifer closes his eyes. Sam’s heartbeat echoes through his chest, resonating with the grace thrumming close to the surface of his earthly shell. He shivers, and in response Lucifer holds him tighter. Sam’s breathing is deep and even, his skin warm. His hands hesitantly drape around Lucifer’s waist. They stay that way for a few minutes, and Lucifer thinks he hears Sam sigh.

Lucifer traces the shell of Sam’s ear with his lips, biting gently at the earlobe and earning a gasp when he tugs. He searches for words. But in all the languages of Creation nothing came close to being enough for what he was feeling. All except for two words, if Sam would allow himself to hear them.

“Sam,” he injects every shade of emotion possible in that word, that single name he clung to in the dark. Whatever happened next, he would always have this. “Sam, I’m sorry.”

 Sam jerks in his grip, shocked. Hurt and betrayal in his eyes. Lucifer doesn’t look away. The hurt quickly turns to anger, and when Sam finally manages to speak, his voice is tight, controlled.

“You were watching me.”

Lucifer’s gaze remains steady, calm. “Yes.”

“You were _spying_ on me.”

Sam’s anger is almost blinding in its terrible beauty. Lucifer can’t bring himself to look away. “Yes, Yes I was.”

He catches the fist that Sam aims at him, more for Sam’s sake than his own. Lucifer can mend injuries as well as any angel, but Sam has no need for the unnecessary pain of a shattered hand. Sam is undeterred. With all his strength he shoves Lucifer off his lap, sending him sprawled on his back at the foot of the bed. As he tries to land another blow, Lucifer succeeds in stopping it yet again.

Despite the red mist clouding Sam’s mind, he knows that Lucifer has every single advantage over him. This makes him angrier, Lucifer fighting to block every single blow coming his way. Until he realizes that if things continue in this vein it would only serve to have Sam injured, or worse.

Abruptly he lets go of Sam’s arms. The split second after he does, Sam has him pinned to the mattress by the throat.

They stare at each other for a long, frozen moment. Sam’s straddling Lucifer’s by the waist, fingers digging into his throat. His fingers flex, and Lucifer can feel them tightening around his windpipe. If he were a human he would be unconscious by now, with the way Sam’s driving pressure on his throat. However, the futility of his actions is not lost on Sam. He lets go, climbs off of Lucifer, stumbles out of the bed. He’s pulling on his coat and has his hands on the doorknob when Lucifer speaks.

“I’m not sorry that you freed me from the Cage.” Lucifer’s blue eyes are boring into Sam’s back. “I’m not sorry for starting the Apocalypse. I accept responsibility for whatever devastation I caused. I will not apologize for it.” Sam ignores him, twists open the door.

Lucifer’s next words stop him dead in his tracks. “But for whatever pain I caused you… The deaths of your family, your girlfriend. The life you led because of who – what – you were meant to be. All the suffering and pain and rage you endured because of it. Because of me. Sam… please believe me when I say I truly am sorry.”

Sam doesn’t speak, doesn’t move from the open doorway. Lucifer rises from the bed, walks towards Sam. He’s close enough to touch, and his hand hovers over Sam’s shoulder. After a brief second he drops it.

“I do not ask for your forgiveness.” His voice is soft, barely a whisper in the motel room. “That’s not your burden to bear.” He turns away, but before he can spread his wings Sam slams the door shut.

A long moment of tense silence. Sam is the first to break it. “You say you’re sorry,” His voice is hoarse, and there’s a subtle tremble in his shoulders. “Sometimes – a lot of times, actually – an apology isn’t good enough. I should know. _Nothing_ you say can make up for all the lives you destroyed.”  His eyes are blazing. Lucifer doesn’t look away.

“What would you have me do, then?” Lucifer asks quietly.

Sam’s eyes are dark with rage and hunger. For a moment his face contorts, fury breaking into something raw, naked, and torn. He grasps Lucifer’s chin. Lucifer doesn’t resist, doesn’t even flinch when Sam drags him close. Deceptively gentle fingers trail through his hair, then brutally yank his head back as Sam hisses into his ear.

“ _Show me how much you mean it.”_

Before Lucifer knows it, Sam’s ravaging his mouth with his own.

Teeth and tongue and lust and fury, the fire of it has Lucifer gasping into Sam’s mouth. His hands slide under Lucifer’s shirt, raking down his back, catching on the sores. There’s a sick sort of satisfaction on Sam’s face when the blisters burst under his nails, making Lucifer hiss. Lucifer’s eyes are wide, the pupils so dilated that they’ve all but swallowed up the irises. His truth-twisted mouth kiss-bruised and wet.  There’s unconcealed _want on_ his face, and the power of it rushes through Sam. With an almost animal snarl he grabs Lucifer’s hand from where it’s digging into his shoulders, guiding it to the bulge between his legs.

“On your knees.”

At Sam’s words Lucifer’s eyes narrow. The fingers of his other hand clench at Sam’s throat, hard enough to break skin. Sam doesn’t back down, doesn’t blink, holding Lucifer’s furious stare with his own. The tension between them almost as thick as that first night, but by the end of it it’s Lucifer who breaks. Something hot and dark flashing through him and just as quickly stifled. Sam’s hands heavy on his shoulders as he sinks to his knees.

Sam shudders when he feels the drag of the zipper opening, cold fingers pushing his jeans down. There’s a damp patch on his underwear where his cock is straining against the fabric. Lucifer presses his mouth against it, the sound of Sam’s unsteady breathing coiling hot and heavy in him. His hands are careful as they pull down Sam’s underwear, exposing him completely. Fingers and lips ghost over the shaft, the tip dripping with pre-come. Sam’s breathing growing ragged the more Lucifer works him, and when he finally takes him into his mouth, he lets out a harsh cry.

But it’s not enough. Even with Lucifer’s hands and mouth driving him to a frenzy. He wants more, wants Lucifer shattered and writhing beneath him. So he drags him up by the roots of his hair, pauses for a moment to take in the sight of the archangel reduced to so much debauched intensity. Lucifer’s gasping for breath, his shirt soaked in cold sweat and he’s _trembling._ His voice a wreck as he half-whispers “Sam…” Sam’s having none of it, one biting kiss after another until he’s silenced. And it’s only when Lucifer half-collapses against Sam, wanton and desperate and so so, close does Sam growl out.   

“On the bed. Now.”

Lucifer’s eyes are closed when Sam spreads him beneath him and starts tearing his clothes off, exposing disintegrating flesh. Bloody fluid from his ruptured sores stain the white sheets, and it only makes Sam scratch deeper, bite harder. Sensation rips through Lucifer’s brittle skin, and he wonders how Sam hasn’t torn into the very core of him, the tainted heart of his grace. Sam’s calloused hands push apart his thighs. This is the only warning he gets before Sam pushes into him, all at once. 

 His eyes fly open, breath stuttering, and it _hurts_ , the ripping pain more than he ever expected to feel in his flawed vessel. A broken cry emerges from his lips. He turns his head to one side, trying to muffle it, but Sam grasps his chin with his hands.

“ _Look at me.”_ The words are forced through gritted teeth. Sam’s eyes are wide with fury and triumph and not a little horrified wonder. Lucifer, burning with lust and shame, can’t look away.

“Do you know what it’s like, knowing that you were the one who caused all this?”

“Sam… I -” The words only enrage Sam further. He pulls out, slams back in with full force. Whatever Lucifer meant to say ends in a broken groan. 

“Knowing that everything, everyone I’ve ever lost –“Calloused hands rake down Lucifer’s sides, pin his wrists to the bed. Sam’s skin is _scorching_ against his, and his touch leaves angry red marks in their wake.

“Every time Dean had to take the fall for me, every moment Dad spent chasing after Mom’s killer - all of it can be traced back to _you._ “

Lucifer shudders, panting and mouth half-open. His senses overheating, skin feeling too small, constricting as Sam runs his hands through every square inch of him that could be contained. Sam’s eyes are wild, so far gone that Lucifer feels a stab of fear in his gut even as another thrust sends pain-pleasure rippling up his spine.

“And whenever I see you –“ A rough hand grasps Lucifer’s erect cock.

“Whenever I touch you –“ The hand squeezes. The sensation makes Lucifer gasp.

“Whenever I remember _how much I want you- “_ Sam _twists,_ and Lucifer _screams_.

“ _It feels like I’m spitting on everything they died for.”_  

The hand on his cock tightens almost painfully, then lets go. One final thrust, so deep that he feels like he’s been cleaved in two, and Lucifer’s gone. Coming hard enough that he whites out for a few seconds. A moment later and it’s Sam’s turn, collapsing into a shuddering mess, and the liquid heat that spills into Lucifer _stings_ but feels like completion.

It’s quiet in the aftermath. Sam’s breathing is hard and heavy, the weight and heat of him almost suffocating. Lucifer rests his head on the slope of Sam’s shoulder, his hands wrapped around his hips. Both of them too exhausted and wrung-out to even think of moving. The sound of breathing fills the empty space as the minutes stretch. For a while, they remain entwined. As always, it’s Sam who moves first, pulling out of Lucifer and getting off him, sitting up on the bed.

There’s dark blood between Lucifer’s thighs, mixed with Sam’s come drying sticky and white. His body a tapestry of scratches and oozing wounds, pain lancing up his spine and making him wince. He doesn’t miss the shame and self-disgust on Sam’s face when he takes in the damage he’s wrought.

“Sam,” Lucifer’s voice is barely above a gentle murmur. Sam flinches, all the same. Though his face is turned away, the telltale tremble of his shoulders show Lucifer all he needs to know. Slowly he lifts his hand, brushes it lightly against Sam’s shaking back.

“Sam…” He tries again. This time Sam responds. Pinning Lucifer back to the bed like he did earlier, but instead of maddened lust there’s agony and guilt and that soft broken look. tears raining on his face, the sound of his choking grief so much worse than the point of any angel blade. His hands on Lucifer’s shoulders tight enough to hurt. Lucifer merely looks at him and closes gentle fingers onto his wrists, holding on.

 Sam falls apart in his arms, sobs resonating in the hollow of Lucifer’s throat as the archangel wraps him in an embrace. His lips brush lightly at the top of Sam’s head.  Maybe one day the fighting would stop and the festering wounds left by fate would scab over. Maybe one day, Sam would look at him with the unguarded tenderness he fought so hard to hide, free of the heavy burden of guilt, his ghosts laid to rest. Maybe one day, Lucifer will earn his forgiveness. For now, a broken boy clings to his fallen angel as the angel mouths silent contrition against his skin. For now, Sam cries.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Something I notice tends to get glossed over by a lot of Samifer shippers is that all the events of Sam's life, all the horror and hell he went through, were a direct result of Lucifer's orders. Azazel may have been the one who planned and manipulated those events, but it was still Lucifer who told him to go after that "very special child" in the first place. Azazel may have pulled the trigger, but it was Lucifer who gave him the loaded gun. I just don't think Sam would be able to let go that easily, much less forgive, no matter how much he ends up loving and caring for Lucifer. 
> 
> Thanks so much to itallstartedwithdefenestration (samaelmorningstar on tumblr) for reading, reviewing, and giving me the courage to post this! :D


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